


When It Rains

by spica_starson



Series: Geralt & Dandelion’s Adventures [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Takes Care of Jaskier | Dandelion, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Sickfic, Takes place somewhere before Blood of Elves, or basically before canon events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24933181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spica_starson/pseuds/spica_starson
Summary: Dandelion was proud to say he doesnotget ill easily—thrown into various adventures and situations accompanying Geralt as he did, as well as traveling the Continent by himself as a world-renowned troubadour, he would say that his immunity had evolved rather splendidly. So it was a surprise to both him and Geralt when; after a series of unfortunate events, sleeping out in the cold and getting hammered down by the rain, he caught a godforsaken cold. By the time either of them realized, it was far too late.Now Geralt has a handful of sickly bard to care for.Crap.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt & Dandelion’s Adventures [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804720
Comments: 4
Kudos: 90





	1. Catching a cold

**Author's Note:**

> I'm well aware that the Sick!Jaskier/Dandelion trope is already widely popular in the fandom, which usually deters me from writing it- BUT! I haven't seen one specifically catered to Book!Dandelion and Book!Geralt and how they act in canon, so I'd like to try my hand at it. Watch me try to keep their personalities as close to canon as possible (bc I absolutely adore their dynamic in the books) XD
> 
> This took place somewhere in their travels together, before the Nilfgaardian war and meeting Ciri, but after meeting Yennefer. Enjoy!

Dandelion coughed.

Rain had pelted heavily against the thin cloak he wrapped snugly around him, a poor alternative to the expensive (and not to mention, much thicker) mantle he had left behind in their haste to get out of the unwelcome assaults from those ungrateful townsfolk.

Something he kept lamenting about as they were finally forced to find shelter in a damp crevice at the foot of the mountain, the ground and any surrounding inflammable objects far too soggy for any fire to be lit, even with Geralt’s Igni. That night, the two huddled close against the chill, the only source of warmth they could find shared between them.

It was much later, the very next night camping out under the stars with no villages in sight that Dandelion started coughing.

Mind you, the bard was by no means prone to sickness. His prolonged exposure to the harsh elements for years on end, traveling on the road with only his steed and meagre supplies as many wanderers did, had given him a considerable amount of immunity to the common to more uncommon ailments.

Still, his human body was still simply a body—susceptible to deteriorating once it had reached its limits.

The symptoms started out so small, so frivolous and unnoticeable, the bard simply chalking it up to the lack of liquid he had to live through that devilishly hot day—the sun beating down harshly against their skin, sweat pooling beneath his hat and dripping down his face.

With that in mind, the bard wisely chose to save his voice lest it permanently suffers from his growing need to express his discomfort. Beside him he could feel Geralt stealing none-too-subtle glances at him and Dandelion huffed, glaring.

“What?”

A smirk. “You’re actually quiet for once, poet. Small blessings.”

Grumbling, said poet snapped back: “I can see you’re in a good mood. Well don’t get used to it, my deeply concerned friend. I am simply exercising caution towards my precious vocal cords due to my slow but inevitable road to death by dehydration.”

The Witcher simply hummed, eyes closed in concentration as he no doubt was tuning into whatever his witcher senses had caught. It was something he had grown far too used to seeing over the years to be impressed by at this very moment.

“We should come across a stream in a few furlongs if we head further along this path,” said Geralt after a while, tapping his heels into his trusty mare, sending her into a quick trot. “It’s somewhere east into the forest, but we’ll be able to find it with no issue.”

“Go on then,” said the poet impatiently, coughing drily, “lead the way, noble Witcher.”

And that was the end of it. Or so he thought.

When another trickle of rain suddenly poured down heavily upon them and soaked them wet to the bones the next day, flickering lights and silhouettes resembling houses appeared in sight right on the horizon. Spurring their steed into a full gallop, the two weary travelers pushed through the growingly violent rainstorm, their future shelter giving hope and strength to their tired bodies.

Even Geralt, with all his witcher stamina was not fairing that much better than his human companion.

It was here, in the comforts of a much smaller but more hospitable town—a town with no deep-rooted prejudice towards Witchers unlike their previous stop, where Dandelion’s song of glory and heroics had considerably reached and was celebrated; it was here that Geralt finally noticed something odd in the troubadour’s demeanour.

“Bard,” called out the Witcher quietly after hearing the third wet cough from his friend, a slight wheeze pulled deep from his chest whenever he breathed, “you’re ailing.”

Geralt cursed his own inattentiveness, their poor living condition having occupied his mind for the better half of the week; his priorities shifting drastically to make sure they were fed and unharmed throughout their journey. In their haste to find proper shelter, he had forgotten how feeble a human’s body could be against the natural elements—a fatal mistake on his part.

Under the warm light of the tavern, one could easily distinguish the dark bags forming beneath the poet’s hazy eyes, sweat giving off a sheen on his pasty skin. With a single sniff, the witcher immediately zeroed in onto the unforgiving stink latching onto his friend like vermin, bitter and vile. This does not look good.

Cupping the mug of warm ale in his hands, Dandelion said nothing, unfocused eyes gazing vacantly into the untouched beverage in front of him. Geralt clicked his tongue: Not good at all.

“Dandelion-” Reaching out to touch his wrist before he hissed, the unnatural heat sizzling beneath his fingers as he pulled back. Crap.

After reaching the small village, he had parted ways with the bard after paying for their stay at the only respectable inn available there, leaving the poet to his own devices as he usually did. His armour needed repairs, swords sharpened, and maybe he’ll even find a job or two to compensate for the loss they’d taken from the last town.

His friend had waved him away with a harrumph, reminding him not to forget to get him a new hat since his old one was left behind along with his priced mantle.

“Shoo. Go on, witcher,” said Dandelion, “we’ll talk tonight and I can pay you back then. For now, I simply want to enjoy all this quaint village has to offer.” Winking lewdly, the bard had sauntered off to gods know where, and said witcher had rolled his eyes at his usual antics, putting it out of his mind as he explored the rest of the town.

There was nothing wrong then. Nothing to indicate the coughs were anything but a minor relapse on their journey. But now...

His lute abandoned on the bench alongside him; new hat still in Geralt’s satchel, the bard never asking him for it after they met up at the tavern below the inn. The silence had been welcomed for the first few minutes, before he grew queasy from the lack of exaggerated tales and questions from his garrulous friend about his exploits.

With a new sense of urgency, he rose up and went around the table they occupied, hauling the poet to his feet by his shoulders. “Come on,” grunted Geralt with a grimace, feeling the uncomfortable warmth emitting from his quiet friend, “let’s get you back to our room.”

The trip was a lot more gruelling than you’d expect two grown men to go through, the non-stop whining of a “killing headache” and the many steps the bard would miss and slip from getting a handful of curses out of him. _At least he’s talking again_ , thought Geralt drily.

When they finally reached the room they paid for, Dandelion was dripping to the floor with his own sweat, shaking like a leaf as he clung to Geralt for dear life. “I...I think I’m about to feel sick,” moaned the bard, curling in on himself.

“You’ve done quite a fine job at that, you fool,” snarked Geralt, settling the pale man onto their bed. Thankfully, the mattress was thicker than he had expected from a humble establishment such as this, the bed’s cushioning providing ample support for the feverish poet.

Frowning, he then grabbed an empty chamber pot from the corner of the room, positioning it right beside the bed in case any...accidents were to occur. From below or above.

Now that he was no longer in the midst of a bustling crowd, the dim glow from the lone candle acting as their only source of light in their small room, the poet seemed to fare much better than he had earlier. Drowsy, blue eyes slowly tracked the room before landing on the hulking figure beside him.

“G-Geralt...?” croaked the poet weakly. Before he could utter another word, a huge coughing fit started, lungs rattling painfully against his chest as though wanting to be free of their cages. Shivering despite the warmth of their room, the witcher laid the coarse blanket over him, laying the flat of his hands against his soaked forehead.

Burning. Much, much too hot. He cursed.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting sick?” Geralt growled. It came out a touch harsher than he had intended it to be, and the witcher inwardly flinched, watching his friend struggle to maintain eye contact with his chest heaving.

He needed attention, and fast. Far be it from him to know how to care for the sick, but this was unfortunately not the first time his friend had fallen ill during their travels. Though the last time had been...many years ago. The first few years after they met in Gulet and got to know each other better. Praying to the gods he did not believe in; he genuinely hoped his memories were still intact.

A headache started to form in his temple and the white-haired witcher sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. Standing up with a bucket and several clean scraps of linen he found in the dresser, he murmured, “I’ll be right back, Dandelion. _Stay put_.”

The last instruction was honestly unnecessary, but you can never be too careful with Dandelion.

When he returned with a bucket filled to the brim with ice-cold water and a cup of hot liquid, the bard had taken it upon himself to curl up into a small, trembling ball, having pulled the blanket up towards his chin.

It truly was a pitiful sight. Guilt wormed its way treacherously into Geralt’s chest, but he pushed it away, refusing to acknowledge its existence. Not now.

Not when his friend needed him.

Gently turning over the poet from his fetal position (“Dandelion. Hey, Dandelion. It’s me,”), the witcher made short work of wiping the cold sweat on his forehead and the area around it dry, blonde hair flushed against his scalp from how drenched it had become. The poet’s face was flushed as a tomato, his runny nose and blotchy cheeks clashing against the pale valour.

“Come on,” Geralt urged him gruffly, but not unkindly, “blow your nose before you suffocate to death.” He held the used cloth around the bard’s nose, waiting until the painful sound stopped and his friend sagged down after seemingly using all his strength to blow out the gathered mucus.

“Ugh...” groaned the poet, eyes shut close in agony. “G-Geralt....’m dying, aren’t I...?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, now too familiar with the melodramatic tendencies his idiot of a friend has. “Don’t be a fool,” snorted the witcher with a shake of his head, laying down the cold, wet cloth onto his burning forehead, “as if I’d let you.

“After all, what would the world say were the great bard Master Dandelion to die from a mere common cold?”

“Ha...aha..ver’....fun’y....”

He then helped the bard sit up to drink the warm concoction he had requested from the innkeeper downstairs, the strong mixture hopefully abating the fever before it worsened and helped soothe his chest. There was no time to mask the disgusting taste and smell however, and if the immediate blanching from his friend was anything to go by, it was probably far from an easy swallow.

But he did, albeit taking several quick sips to do so.

After helping the bard change out of his sopping wet shirt into one of his own (“Stop squirming or I’ll smack your head, damn it,”) and bury himself under the cover once more, he made sure to mentally tick off everything he should be doing in his mind. His friend looked as comfortable as one can be when wrecked with coughs and sniffles every few minutes; eyes drooping close, mouth slightly parted to let air in.

Finally satisfied with his work, the witcher nodded to himself and patted the covered chest of the bard gently: “Get some rest, my friend. I’ll wake you in a few to get some sustenance into you.”

Before he could step out of the confines of the room to clean out the used clothes however, a meek voice called out to him. Sighing for what seemed like the thousandth time this day, he turned his head back to face the bed.

“What now?” he asked gruffly, raising his eyebrow at the lump snuggling underneath the blankets.

“M..my lute,” whispered the lump hoarsely, right hand poking out of the material entrapping him, “I can’t rememb’r wher-”

In a blink of an eye, the requested lute was now floating a few inches above him, effectively shielding him from his limited view of the ceiling.

“I’ve got your precious lute, don’t you worry, poet,” sighed Geralt, corner of his lips slanting up wryly at the silly grabbing motion his friend was making. Oh, all the things he could tease him with after this. “Now save your strength unless you want me to strap you to the bed, you oaf.”

Carefully, he positioned the instrument on an empty spot between the poorly man and the wooden wall; if only so he wouldn’t have to hear the nonstop whining of the troubadour if anything were to happen to it, no matter it be his own fault or others.

Just as he was about to close the door behind him to shut out all the offending light and noise coming from the tavern for its sick occupant, he caught a faint voice uttering something unintelligible from within the darkened room, but not so soft that his sensitive hearing could not pick it up.

Silence. Then, a huff. “Rest, Dandelion,” and the door closed with a soft click.

And right before the figure disappeared behind the only opening to the outside, Dandelion would have seen a small smile on the figure’s face. But the bard was already fast asleep, physically drained and blissfully unaware of the world beyond.


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a bonus chapter to close off the story <3

“So...would you care to remind me how long I was out again?”

“Four days, then you slipped in and out of consciousness for the next two.”

Dandelion bit his lip, falling silent as he calculated how much it costed Geralt for them to stay at the inn for such an extensive period of time, no matter how inexpensive it was.

Sighing, the bard turned to his white-haired companion who was saddling up their supplies onto Roach, petting her neck all the while.

“Look, Geralt-” started Dandelion, wringing the lute in his hold, “I apologize for not noticing how severe my conditions were sooner. You know I would’ve said something to avoid repeating...what happened years ago. Truly dreadful experience for both of us, I’m sure. As for the fee of our sta-”

“Save it, bard,” grunted the witcher, tying several waterskins firmly onto the saddle-pack. “I’m also at fault for not realizing at once, in case you'd forgotten. You were by my side all that time and I should have caught on quicker.”

“But—!”

“No.”

“...Not even half?”

“ _No_ , Dandelion.”

Spluttering at the generosity the witcher was showing but not entirely surprised, Dandelion resolved to glaring at his friend. He clicked his tongue, fuming: “Fine! But I’ll see to it that I’ll be covering your drinks _and_ carnal excursions—at least the ones that I know of—for the next few weeks until it satisfies me. You shan’t- _cannot_ stop me from doing those, Geralt. I won't let you.”

A snort. Dismissive. “Let’s go, Dandelion. We've wasted enough time here.”

Years of traveling with the troublesome witcher had luckily not failed him, and the bard recognized his insistence for what it was. Guilt ate up inside the witcher like a rotting carcass, leaving nothing but itself unless he was content with whatever remuneration he deemed fit.

His new hat with its egret feather in place (and properly paid back, thank you very much), Dandelion immediately filled the silence with music—an itch he had to scratch from his inability to give voice to his words for a whole week. Singing and laughing, he recounted everything he had planned to do before his sudden decline of health to his companion, attracting the attention of the townsfolk as they rode past them at a leisurely pace. Even Geralt did not seem to be in a hurry to leave nor interrupt him, letting the bard indulge himself after so long.

“Geralt,” said the poet quietly after they finally arrived on the outskirts of the town, away from prying eyes, tightening his hold onto his mount’s reigns. “Please accept my offer as a sign of my gratitude. What you did was...I really am grateful, old friend.”

Because between sporadic dives into unconsciousness, Dandelion remembered gentle wipes of sweet, sweet coolness on his forehead and a full belly—always—warmed by both powerful medicaments and stews that might have tasted heavenly were his senses in perfect condition. No matter the time, night or day, there was a constant presence near him, taking good care of him, and Dandelion was not too far gone to not know who it was.

In-between crass insults and indifferent gestures were actions that spoke louder than any word a great poet could have miraculously whipped out. And he wanted to appreciate them for what they were, even if the witcher was unwilling to accept it.

A long-suffering sigh resounded from his left. “If it gets you to finally shut up,” the witcher finally replied after a long pause, though not entirely happy.

Dandelion counted that as a win. Cheering both privately and flamboyantly, the troubadour broke into laughter and strummed his lute, a happy tune playing to echo his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't fit it in the story, but Geralt would alternate between sleeping on the bed with Dandelion to keep him warm, or on the floor to give him space to breathe after a really bad spasm of coughs. They canonically share a bed (and a room) nearly every time anyway to save money, so Dandelion--once he realized this, felt guilty that the money Geralt used was mainly for him. Since Geralt is shown to be a generous guy in the books, I can definitely see him doing this (Go read 'Sword of Destiny' and ‘Season of Storms’ if you want to see what I mean). He's just...such a good friend yall ;u; they both are. They may snark and insult each other but they really do care about one another and- //soBS// oh no im getting emotional again ho bOi wh o OPs—
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my rendition of the trope XD Let me know what you think!
> 
> Feedback/comments are always welcomed <3


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